


To Feel Safe

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5999116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he wants is to make Porthos feel safe, loved, the way that Porthos always makes him feel. In practice, however, it proves too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Feel Safe

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on tumblr for the prompt of dom/sub portamis. I ended up approaching it as "Aramis attempts to dom, can't manage it" and then it became more feelings for the poor loser.

Aramis draws in a sharp breath, breathes it back out again. This is, after all, his idea. He is, after all, the one to suggest it. He is, in the end, the reason for this. 

He looks at Porthos, then down at the ropes in his hands. Aramis admits to himself, that secret part deep in the depths of his gut, that there is excitement in the idea of Porthos trusting him enough for this – Porthos, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him, watching him carefully. The rope, though, hadn’t been his idea – that at least had been Porthos. It’d been Porthos who had taken it out, threaded it around his wrist to coil it up, and hand it to Aramis as if this were a simple job, as if there was not an unspoken weight passing between them – some kind of quiet understanding neither of them need to voice to feel deep down to the tips of their toes. 

Except when he steps towards Porthos and Porthos looks at him and offers his wrists to him, the excitement falls away. It is not excitement. It is not anticipation. It is not arousal or happiness or any kind of thrill of danger. 

It is fear. It is disgust. His hands tremble. He is used to this – is used to being afraid, is used to being angry with himself. He is not used to feeling this when he’s looking at Porthos, who is looking up at him as if he understands, as if there is not some kind of terrifying struggle at the idea of Aramis tying Porthos down, pinning him down and splaying his body out over him, kissing down every restrained inch. That— no, that cannot be desire. 

He starts to tremble. It had been his idea – it had been his idea, to show Porthos. It had been his idea to show Porthos just how good he made him feel, just how much Aramis likes being held down, controlled, withheld, dragged down beneath the surface or over the edge or whatever metaphor there might be—

But not like this. The first time Porthos tied Aramis down, that had been the right time to be afraid – not now, not when he is in control. But no. That first time, months ago – when they first met, when they were still learning each other – Aramis had never felt afraid, although perhaps some fools out there would have: feared that instinctive trust needed to have your hands tied up above your head, to stare up at a man who could abandon you like this, could hurt you like this—

And instead only feeling safe. He’d wanted Porthos to feel that, too. He’d wanted Porthos to feel free and safe, held safe because of Aramis. That first time, the times after – Porthos never let him go, Porthos always held him down. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says softly, interrupting Aramis’ thoughts – and he wonders how long he has stood here, trembling, hands gripped knuckle-white around the rope. Aramis looks at him, startled. Porthos is already looking at him. “I trust you.” 

Aramis’ mouth goes dry. He drops the rope, shakes his head, and steps into Porthos’ space. “You shouldn’t,” he gasps out, can’t understand why there are prickles of tears at the corners of his eyes now. “No, oh God – you shouldn’t.” 

But Porthos is already folding him into his arms and Aramis does not cry, never really cries – but the crippling, painful lurch in his gut that stops his throat is something too close to regret. 

“I wanted—” Aramis begins.

“What?” Porthos prompts, his hand already tangling in Aramis’ hair.

“I wanted to show you,” Aramis mumbles, can’t articulate just what – that foolish, stupid desire to make Porthos feel safe and loved, the way he always should. 

Porthos’ lips are warm against the shape of his ear, breath against the line of his jaw. He whispers, “You already did.”


End file.
